He did not die but explode.
like a star into shimmers and bits of gold. piercing and sharp and beautifully deadly themself. Just as he had been.
People said, it was then, when the angles wept. Their baby blue eyes crying golden tears pouring down from the sky whose once cyan color lay now covered in ashen mist.
Oh, he did not die, he ripped the world in pieces/ simply by disappearing from it.
And it bled warmly in crimson on the dark green earth and sulked the once fecund soil.
Oh, and the people, they whispered, their husky voices dripping from heavy grieve, their glassy questioning eyes darting around. Bleeding in crimson from the golden wounds on their body, in their hearts. Bleeding out.
Bleeding out like the cotton candy clouds;
like the honey kissed lovers had bled. And during all of that, the gold particles were dancing among the crimson mess the bleeding earth had turned into.
And I, oh, I simply stretched out my hand, ever so delicately, and closed it around a bit of gold, a ray of broken sunshine that had bursted from my lover's soul. I closed my hand around it, as I would have done if I held a beautiful rose, her stem covered in sharp thorns.
Brutally. Violently. With all the force that was left in my body.
And then, I watched myself bleed out. In crimson.
YOU ARE READING
euphoria
Poetry‚I glance up into the clouded sky. a sea of grey and of nothing at all. and I just want to fucking drown myself in it.' welcome to my 3 am poetry collection. 2020.
